Never spit the fire you feel growing inside your mouth, into your daughters face. She is a house with no windows, she is a tree about to lose all her leaves. She is a fragile dandelion, growing older every day, on the count of one she’s–
You named her Luna, because she was your moon,
because she lit
up the entire sky inside the palms of your hands, leaving your fingertips lined with a heavy ache every time you held her;
as if you had just ripped every constellation from the sky with your bare hands.
You named her luna, because you always said that no one could make you feel the way you did when you looked up at the moon,
but then you saw her.
Do not let your words, be as the fractured world collapsing down upon her,
she is breaking already, can’t you see?
The mocking sun, pulling down all the galaxies onto her fragile bones,
do not be,
that’s shaded purple. The voice that sounds a lot like her own that says;
you can not do this, Luna.
Tell her that her hands, even though they’re made of glass
can hold worlds,
and she will never have to feel as empty as the spaces between her fingers and tell her,
that her voice is made of the ocean,
that there are islands growing inside her bones that only you can see, and tell her, that she is part of the universe, where all the trees and rivers and stars, love her.
tell her she can not become of anything, because before those words left your mouth,
she believed she could;
and that’s enough.
She is enough